I stumbled upon this newspaper clipping whilst foraging through an abandoned farmhouse for haunted relics, as one does, and was immediately intrigued, for obvious reasons. Why a man would want to desecrate the cemetery where his own children lay buried is not something even I, with all my experience in the dark and twisted, can understand. I managed to trace the clipping’s origins back to 1902, to a small town that fits the phrase “in the middle of nowhere” better than any other “middle of nowhere” place I have encountered–and, as you know, that has been quite a few.

There, I dragged the river in an attempt to locate any of the desecrated headstones, although I did not have much hope, seeing as how over a century has passed. Fortuitously, I did find one scrap of stone that called to me more than the other scraps of stone along the riverbed–called to me quite literally, with a sharp-edged voice that I could identify as neither girl nor boy, young nor old, but rather something between and of all of those things, too. The voice in the stone babbled and hissed, croaked and raved, and truly at first it made not one whit of sense. But I think I have managed to arrange the words I could understand into a sort of story, although it is different from the others I have collected.

I have enclosed said stone in this parcel, along with the clipping and my story, all of which should of course be archived, and posthaste. Perhaps one of you will have more luck listening to the voice inside this stone and piecing together its tale. I would advise you do so quickly, for the voice fades every day. I do believe it will soon fall quiet altogether, so far from its home.

Yours,Curator Legrand

I don’t like flowers
I never have
not the yellow ones like Mama’s hair
and not deep blue like winter mornings
not blood-red, not meat-red, not red like bad gums
they stain pockets and they turn my skin to crawling
they look happy when I am happy
but they look
cruel
when I am not
and I don’t like this new one either
this new flower who
sings
when it works
yes I do believe this new flower is
the
worst of
all

the first thing he did was
rip
he took the stones and
tore them
from the dirt
from the roots
one by
one by
one
until we had no heads
until the wind gnawed our bones bare
then what did he do? what did he do then?
I’ll tell you
he built a house with them
he spread them out like a deck of cards
or maybe more like
if you squint real hard
stacks upon stacks
of teeth

worse, though, was the others
the other ones he took
and he tossed
and he threw them in the river’s mouth
to drown
alone
their names lost to the waters of the
dead

he built his house upon them
our stolen stones
our cards
our teeth
left us cold and left us
scared
took his plow and tilled us
chopped us
churned us into chunks
pushed his seeds into us
for money
brought his wife and his babies
kissed them
hugged them
tucked them in
“this is our home now” he told them

no
wrong
it is
ours

and we want it back

he is no flower, this creature with his hat
his plow
his boots
his rake full of metal fangs
his name is that but he’s got no
petals
pollen
pistil
he has only a face made of
hard
blocks
eyes made of
sharp
lights
I think he knows
we are
here
I think
as he stabs our earth with
his plow
his shovel
his rake
he imagines he is hurting us
and is
glad

He will not be glad for long

There are many here in the dank dark deep
There’s me and sister, yes of course
and Big Bad Joe who never meant no harm but has a
face cops thought belonged
nowhere
but jail
There’s Ellis Haze whose daddy sawed off her feet
so she’d never walk away
And the Bloom boys
who knew better
There’s that girl Frankie who thought
life was
a game
And old man Lyle
And the family called Drake
And then there’s the girls with their faces
cut up
I bet Flowers
(that’s his name, but he isn’t a flower
he’s a
beast)
I bet Flowers won’t like
those cut-up girls

But he’ll like me least of all
He always did

We crawl up through the house
its steps
its rooms like hearts
its stolen stones
(OURS)
We drag our way up into the scorching world
above
(it’s like Hell up here)
(too hot and too much noise)
(too much remembering
and remembering
and remembering)
The air forgives, in the dank dark deep
The air caresses and soothes
But we
will do
no
such
thing
up here in this Hell of Flowers
(Daddy, Daddy, why’d you leave me)
(Daddy, Daddy, why’d you drop me in this
place of
stillness)
Our hands are spiders and
Our legs are worms and
Our tongues are vipers and
Our fingernails carve like that rake of yours, Mr. Flowers
that rake
that rake
that rake

Didn’t you know what you done dug up
now
didn’t you didn’t you
know
Didn’t you know my face
(half of it is yours, you know)
(Mama always said I got your eyes)

Are your walls crawling now with that black germ sir
Is that your ceiling shaking like the endtimes
Are those your babies screaming for their mama sir
Are those your babies screaming

You brought us up here into this
Hell
You shook out our sleeping veins and
laughed
You broke our chains and
drowned our names in silt
and
storms
and now you pay the price
and now your house of cards comes falling

d
o
w
n

and now we take back these stolen teeth
Now we kiss your face like plague
and now you’re here with me, Mr. Flowers
How’s about we root you down here real nice
How’s about we stuff that mouth with food
for your roots
for your petals
pollen
pistil
How’s about we plant you just so, like that
Where the light don’t reach
Where the water seeps slow like
the turn of ages
the drag of death
How’s about you sit right here next to me, Daddy
(now don’t cry sir)
(hush little baby don’t cry)
(don’t make me call for the cut-up girls sir)
(it’s bad enough here with me, don’t you think?)
Flowers don’t cry Daddy
(didn’t you know?)
Flowers don’t cry in the
dank
dark
deep
No
they wilt, they choke
they flatten, sir
and they shrivel up
and die